


Mind, Heart & Soul

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e06 Spock's Brain, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24964537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Besides Bridge duty, Montgomery Scott has an Engineering department to finish inspecting, because it was not in his plans today to have to abruptly come up with the mechanisms for a remote-controlled Franken-Vulcan, thanks very much. (That the previous statement does not even sound out of the ordinary to him, should likely raise more of a red flag than it does, but that is life aboard this ship.)He does not have time for this.Four-shot, tag scenes for the end of Spock's Brain. Serious treatment of that not-so-serious episode.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> While this may be on its surface one of the most laughable TOS episodes, if you strip away the craziness its premise is actually pretty horrifying, and there's a lot of off-screen stuff that would be traumatizing to everyone involved. And, it's a far cry from one of the worst episodes. (Way to Eden, anyone?)
> 
> Also, this is one of the very few episodes where the redshirts in the landing party don't die, so. There's that going for it, lol.

Second Officer and Chief Engineer of the Federation's esteemed flagship Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott has seen many odd things in his two-plus decades in space.

Now true enough, he has seen more of those odd things in the last three years than in the twenty prior to that, but this seems to have come with the territory; meaning that of inheriting this firestorm of a ship and her equally enterprising (but no less accident-prone) captain.

But amid the strangeness which comes of exploring barely-charted space, meeting new species and encountering entirely unheard-of technology – amid all that, he has never before been called upon for such a task as the last six hours, and the good Lord willing he will never be asked to participate in such a thing again. He has more than one misgiving about the entire affair, but 'tis not his place to question the orders of the captain unless there is good cause; and even he, is not so foolish as to cross the man when he looks like _that_. No, that is a task best left to an entirely different species, and welcome to it.

Granted, said species is the problem pure and simple, in this instance, and it still hasn't quite settled with him yet that their resident Vulcan is back up and, to all appearances at least, firing on all thrusters. Doctor McCoy is as much a miracle worker in Medical as Scott himself is in Engineering, bless the man, but just the same…it is a bit of a stretch, believing that the other shoe is not going to drop in spectacular fashion when they least expect it. Because, really – brain surgery is not something to shut eyes to, on a good day; and an advanced procedure like this, with strange technology and borrowed knowledge thanks to some alien magicking?

He is not a praying man, but just the same…it does not hurt to have one's bets hedged, not at all.

After two hours of whingeing and crying and finally seeing the light of common sense, the native women have finally agreed to allow a delegation from the _Enterprise_ to mediate between them and the males of the planet's population. This has finally freed the landing party to return shipside, armed with the knowledge that they may at least have salvaged a First Contact out of what is clearly a blatantly broken Prime Directive.

The look on Captain Kirk's face when said broken General Order One was pointed out to him by his First Officer during their negotiations, was the stuff nightmares are made of; and none have dared to bring it up since. With any luck, Scott is confident he will be able to coax some additional speed out of those new plasma converters they picked up on their last stopover at Starbase Forty-three, and they may be back on their scheduled mission before Command even realizes they detoured. For the Captain's sake (and therefore for everyone's), he certainly hopes so.

This ship, for the love of all things holy. Greying before his time, he is. No doubt about it.

Mr. Chekov, Doctor McCoy, and his Security lads disappear in the first transport beam, and he moves into place along with the Captain and Commander as soon as the first patterns are fully disintegrated, all too eager to be out of the planet's native cold. (The chill that stabs across the intervening meters between his two superiors as they prepare for beam-out is just as unpleasant, but at least is less physical.)

Mr. Spock appears steady enough under his own steam, though his coloring is a mite paler than normal, and thank Providence it's Leslie at the transporter controls and not some less experienced Engineer; the transport is quick and smooth, even with mild interference in the upper atmosphere. Not even Doctor McCoy can complain about the process.

A last tingle of electron dissipation and he shakes off the disorienting feeling, stepping down with a sigh of relief to make room for their replacements. The team from Xenosocietal Development and Communications is waiting under the competent direction of the always lovely Nyota Uhura, who gives him a warm smile as she scoots past him onto his transporter pad. Ah, if only things were different…

"And where exactly do you think you're going?" Lurking by the doors like some kind of blue-shirted jungle cat, Doctor McCoy pounces just in time to keep Captain Kirk from escaping the room in the shuffle; the man is fast, but not fast enough.

"You are walking on thin ice, Bones," is the warning delivered in that clenched tone that Scott has personally seen make overconfident junior officers ask for departmental transfers their first week aboard.

"And _you're_ walkin' nowhere but to Sickbay. Standard procedure after an away mission where there's been an altercation of any kind. Full neural workup – you too, Scotty." McCoy glares at him across the room, and it is a formidable weapon despite the distance.

The away team tries to hide the fact that they are not-quite-laughing, and disappears a moment later in Leslie's transport beam. Aye, and had Scott not been fully involved in this nightmare the last few hours he might have a bit of a chuckle as well – but this has been no laughing matter, when it comes down to it, and the situation is not likely to improve.

"Doctor, I am coherent and without signs of physical trauma; therefore under Starfleet regulation 704.5b I have the command authority to waive that examination until an undetermined time in the next twenty-four hours. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have a board of very angry admirals to face over why we are not going to reach Gamma Noctis IV in the time frame requested by the royal council of that planet."

The door slides shut, hiding a retreating gold shirt from view. Leslie gives an awkward sort of cough and edges out of the room a moment later, fleeing down the corridor with nary a look back. Honestly, the lad needs to have more of a spine if he intends to withstand another three years on this mission; he's seen nothing but bark and no bite thus far, so to speak.

Finally McCoy turns sharply, heel squeaking on the durasteel flooring, and fixes him with a look that would frighten a lesser man. Fortunately, he is well immune by this point, and can be the voice of sanity and reason when these three turn on each other, as happens on a day like today.

"You about to break down on me, too? Because I can only handle two crises today, and this one here is about to keel over any second." A sharp elbow catches their First Officer in the torso, whereupon a fearsome glare is leveled in both their directions – a look which is far too human to be anything but hilarious.

"That'd be a negative, Doctor. Would ye like me to defer my examination as well, and be prepared to take over the Bridge, then?"

"You feelin' any aftereffects of those pain belts?"

"Not at all. A mite sore but no worse than a busy day in Engineerin' would have me."

"Then yes. I got no idea what's going on with Jim and _oh no, you don't_ – alien technology or no alien technology, no brain surgery patient of mine is going to be running around this ship on his own two feet like nothing happened!" Spock's eyebrows pull together in a frown, though he is starting to look a little paler than before. "Sickbay. _Now_."

"I do not require assistance, Doctor."

"Good, because that's the last place I want to be right now too. _You_ take him, Scotty." Scott finds himself abruptly in possession of an armful of glowering Vulcan scientist, and wonders vaguely when this became his lot aboard this blasted ship. "I'll go find Jim, assuming he wants to be found."

He stares at the closing doors for a moment in consternation, before sighing and turning to their resident convalescent.

"Well, sir. Looks like 'tis me you're stuck with for now." He nudges their poor First in the direction of the nearest turbolift, and watches to make sure he's steady enough on his feet before continuing down the corridor without a helping hand. "Not experiencing any ill effects, I hope?"

Spock's side-eye is almost fond in its annoyed exasperation. "I am in full possession of both my faculties and my intelligence, Mr. Scott," he replies dryly. "I do not require what I believe you humans call a 'baby-sitter', nor is there a need to engage in idle chatter prior to our reaching the intended destination."

"Annnnnd we missed you too, sir." He rolls his eyes as the lift doors close behind them. "Computer, manual override. Scott, Montgomery, Chief Engineer, authorization code gamma-one-three-one-zero-three. Deck Six, override all other stops and commands."

Spock's small huff is the closest thing he will ever hear to a laugh, that much he's learned in the years they have served together aboard this ship, first under Captain Pike and now, under a totally different commander – one who is likely by now trying his best to hide from a medical homing beacon on the Observation Deck, if his guess is correct.

"I am curious, however," Spock finally muses, as they exit the lift on Deck Six after relative silence, "as to Doctor McCoy's strange behavior in the transporter room."

"Eh?" He nods to Lieutenant Marston as they pass in the corridor; the lad has been out from Engineering on sick leave for four days and obviously has just been cleared, as he's beaming from ear to ear and finally has a bounce back in his step. "How's that, then?"

"His unusual reluctance to exercise his medical authority in personally overseeing how much discomfort he can inflict upon my physiology in a single visit."

"Ah, y'mean not wanting to see you to Sickbay himself, sir."

"I believe that is what I just said, Mr. Scott."

Scott sighs, as they turn the corner toward the medical wing in question. "Well…if I had to hazard a guess, Mr. Spock, and just a guess, mind…I'd say 'tis likely because of what happened after we all woke up from that trance before it all went to the very devil, sir."

Spock looks totally confused. "I do not follow."

"Sir, how exactly d'you think we found out that you were, well, missing a vital organ, so to speak?" He shudders as they enter Sickbay, Spock following slower at his heels. "All I can say, is I wouldna have the stomach to walk in and find that just lying on one of the tables in here."

Bless him, their First looks a little green at the idea. "You mean to say, Mr. Scott…"

"All I know is about ten seconds after we woke up on the Bridge, I was running down this corridor after the Captain, because I've never heard the Doctor sound so spooked." He shakes his head, pleased to see that Nurse Chapel has apparently been taken off duty despite this being her normal shift – she deserves it. That's a strong woman, that is. "I can't imagine it was a pretty sight, to walk into. Apparently this alien 'teacher' wasn't much for post-operative recovery procedure, based on what they found."

Spock's expression turns another shade of pale. "Did the captain see this?"

Of course, that's his question. Scott rolls his eyes, unseen, as he gestures for the nurse on duty to take over his reluctant burden. "Doctor McCoy says a full neural workup and a complete brain scan," he informs the young man, who eyes his superiors with well-founded trepidation. "And no, of course not," he adds, as the nurse bravely attempts to tug their Vulcan patient toward an examination table. "Doc's smarter than that, Mr. Spock, you know that. Got you on life support and under a sterile field before comm-ing the Bridge, and all that within thirty seconds. You owe the man, y'know. And Christine, she was the one who found you first."

"I will speak to Nurse Chapel when she returns to duty." An uncomfortable squirm, which the nurse ignores as he sets scanners in motion. "As to Doctor McCoy…"

The doors abruptly open behind them, and a familiar figure storms in, beelining for his office and leaving a trio of technicians in his wake scrambling nervously out of the danger zone.

Saints preserve them.

"I believe we may infer the captain was uncooperative."

Scott snorts. "The captain, sir, is likely as traumatized as the rest of us and no idea how to deal with it."

Something inside the office shatters against the wall, causing the young nurse to jump, wide-eyed. The neural scan shuts off with a warning chirp, safety protocol engaged at the abrupt jerking motion, and Spock sighs, closing his eyes briefly against the padded table.

Besides Bridge duty, Scott has an Engineering department to finish inspecting, because it was not in his plans today to have to abruptly come up with the mechanisms for a remote-controlled Franken-Vulcan, thanks very much. (That the previous statement does not even sound out of the ordinary to him, should likely raise more of a red flag than it does, but that is life aboard this ship.)

He does not have time for this.

"So, which one of them d'you want, sir? Giving the sick man the first choice, 'tis only fair."

"Your kindness knows no bounds, Engineer."

"Oh, aye. I do try, Mr. Spock."


	2. Chapter Two

One might say that it serves him right, for allowing the debatably brain-damaged party to make the decision instead of the only member of this ship's command chain currently in a reasonably fit state of mind and body. But as they say, what's done is done and cannot be undone, and so it is with mighty resolve and mental request for increase in pay that Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott enters the _Enterprise_ 's Observation Deck on this fine ship's evening.

After unceremoniously booting Lieutenant Carstairs and his three liaisons for the evening out of the shadowed alcove nearest the door and ascertaining no other stragglers linger within, he engages a Class Two privacy lock, sealing the deck off from any other such _ambitious_ officers for the moment. This ship is not without recreation rooms, other observation platforms, central socialization areas, and that blasted bowling alley which no one ever uses except the gamma shift lot from Waste Recycling; the crew will survive without accessing this particular area for an hour. This is not a conversation he wishes to have within range of curious ears and eyes.

Finally, he makes his way over to the massive observation windows, only to find the object of his search watching with some amusement in their reflection. Sixteen inches of spotless transparent tritanium, those windows: necessary to withstand the structural pressures of being so close to the top of the saucer section.

"I'm aware that _my_ actions after a mission of this kind are rather predictable, Mr. Scott. But this, I admit, is something of a surprise."

The captain gives him a sidelong glance that is half-curious, half-wary, as he approaches, and that with good reason. This is a job best suited to one of the two idiots in Science blue hashing it out six decks below them at the moment, and Scott has by far drawn the short straw. McCoy's wrath may be legendary among the crew, but 'tis like a summer thunderstorm, gone in a matter of minutes and leaving clean, refreshing calm in its wake; contrastingly, Scott knows from experience, no one can hold an angry grudge quite like Jim Kirk.

"Well, sir. This isna a conversation I wish to have in front of that young man and his…I dunno what they are, 'tis none of my business, but he can do it elsewhere for now."

Kirk smiles, but the gesture does not reach his eyes. He turns back to the observation windows, staring out at the star-scape with an almost wistful expression, and for a moment the room is wrapped in a not-quite-comfortable silence.

A swirl of starlight stutters for just a moment before flickering past the windows; a glitch in the time-delayed simulation matrix on this side of the Observation Deck, which reproduces the view of what their surroundings would look like along their journey in space were they not at warp, all colorful nebulas in the distance and sparkling stars around them. The opposite side of the deck and its solitary window allows for an unfiltered view of the dizzying, inhumanly colorful and intricate patterns of fractured light which result as their warp bubble distorts time and space around the ship; as they’re still in orbit, this window shows only the dizzying, unending dark of space now. Very few humanoid species can process such a sight without becoming a bit green around the gills, and while Kirk is one of those, Scott knows he prefers the more peaceful, dreamy sight of the simulation, a beautiful cascade of natural lights slowly whirling about the _Enterprise’s_ external viewers as she drifts through the stars.

He makes a mental note to fix the glitch in the time-delay simulation matrix before Mr. Spock sees it and sends one of his infamous memorandums to Engineering with a thinly-veiled inquiry about whether or not Scott has sufficient staffing or simply a lack of observational skills.

"What's on your mind, Mr. Scott?" Kirk breaks into his thoughts a moment later, with a casualness that is just this side of unnatural. "It must be something pressing, if McCoy let you out of Medical so quickly."

"Ah, well. Sir. Y'might say that, well…the Doctor is a bit occupied at the moment."

"Is he now."

"Aye, sir. And there is a mighty debt owed to Mr. Spock for his distraction techniques, if y'don't mind my saying so, sir."

"Duly noted. I take it that is the reason for this divide-and-conquer strategy, then."

Well, the man is no fool, that much Scott already knew; but moments like this light up that fact even more clearly. One reason this ship runs like a well-primed shuttle engine and has ever since the captaincy turnover is that this one man has a pulse on every single crewman, every single moment of the day, and can out-bluff even the most devious of species without a blink. Kirk is not a man to be trifled with, and he can sniff out a conspiracy faster than any other commander Scott's had in all his years in the 'Fleet.

It is a character trait both fascinating and frightening.

Mostly frightening.

However, 'tis certainly not the most frightening thing he has seen aboard this ship in the last three years, and that's a fact.

Unruffled, he shrugs one shoulder with the ease of a man who knows he is in the right, and that his superiors _literally_ cannot afford to lose him; his is the one job aboard this vessel which carries innate job security with it, and they both know it.

"As you say, sir."

"I do not appreciate being ambushed on my own ship, Lieutenant-Commander." Tone calm enough, but tempered with that diamond-edge of command that has made many a younger and less experienced officer tuck tail and run over far less important matters. Aye, and they're throwing titles about again, God help them.

"I'd be happy to take this back down to the _planet_ if y'prefer, Captain."

Kirk looks highly unamused, and a little dumbfounded at his audacity.

"Well I dinna see a third option, sir, not while we're in orbit. So the ship it is."

"Mr. Scott…"

"Yes, Captain?"

"What. Do you _want_." The words are gritted out with a measured exhale, as the man turns away from the windows to face him finally, eyes glinting dark in a pale face against the harsh blackness beyond.

"Well, sir. For one thing, to let you know that I've taken the liberty of rearranging the duty rosters so that Mr. DeSalle is not expecting you on the Bridge until beta shift tomorrow afternoon."

A sandy eyebrow inclines slightly.

"And also, if you don't mind my saying so, sir, you look like you could use a good night's sleep. Or three."

Kirk's eyes close in a resigned gesture of _fair_ _enough_ , before re-opening in some amusement a moment later, weary in the glass-reflection.

"Is that all, Scotty?"

"Ah, no sir."

"No, somehow I didn't think so." The captain's look narrows, a pin-point of warning. "Well, out with it, then. Did Spock put you up to this?"

Scott shakes his head, and watches as confusion takes the place of anger and annoyance, chasing each other in rapid succession. "No, sir. Though I wouldn't be surprised if you dinna get something of the same from him, once everything's all wired good and proper again."

It is not exactly the most tactful reminder of the last twenty-four hours, and he regrets the lightheartedness of the remark when all color drains from Kirk's face at the words.

"Sorry, sir."

"No, it's fine." The captain dismisses him with a wave, runs a weary hand down his face. "It's been a long two days, Scotty. Let me guess, you'd like to address the broken regulations in leaving the ship without the four ranking command crew members during a non-Starfleet mission of unknown hostility."

Well, never let it be said Captain James T. Kirk is afraid to confront a problem head-on, or admit to his own faults when they're thrown in his face with all the tact of a Type Two phaser array. Granted, half the time that willingness to confront does result in metaphorically running headfirst into a neutronium wall, but the man has a backbone and no mistake.

"Well, sir, as Acting First Officer it is my duty to make a report for the ship's log on the affair."

"Of course it is." A brief smile. "I would expect nothing less. And…" Again, the man pales suddenly. "I…I can't even think about making a report right now. I don't know how to dig my way out of this. Scotty, I didn't just walk the line on this one, did I?"

"Ah…no, sir. More like blasted through it at warp factor eight. Just a bit."

A strangled laugh, fragile as syntheglass, shatters through the empty lounge. "Spoken with as much tact as McCoy had a few minutes ago, Mr. Scott."

"Here now, sir, there's no cause to be insulting."

The laugh trails off into something painfully unsteady, and Kirk shakes his head, glancing back for a moment toward the windows. Scott suspects it is not just a passing star-cluster that is reflecting in the man's eyes.

He can see clearly that the captain is exhausted, no doubt mentally as well as physically, and that's no surprise to anyone, given this most recent horror-fest. A gentle push toward the nearest set of overstuffed chairs is met with even less resistance than he would have supposed, and a moment later they are relatively comfortable, ensconced in star-dusted silence.

Finally, Kirk looks up from his steepled fingers, resignation in his eyes. "It's obvious enough, at least to you and McCoy, that I was not thinking clearly here," he says quietly.

"Well, sir." Scott pauses, taps a finger absently on the chair's armrest, and then continues, more cautiously. "You could also make the argument that these were unusual circumstances."

"That is not an excuse."

"Nooooo, but it is a _reason_." At Kirk's mounting protest, he holds up a hand, silencing the man momentarily. "What you're tryin' to say, sir, or rather get me to say, is that you were emotionally compromised and should have been relieved of duty. Correct?"

The phrase is a damning one, to command careers everywhere; and just the hint of it has been enough to split up command teams across the 'Fleet, ground good men to desk positions, destroy otherwise stable relationships. It is a command crew's death sentence, and a captain's worst nightmare.

He can see that nightmare reflected now against the starlight, glinting and fearful and all but resigned.

"Is that your opinion as Acting First Officer, Mr. Scott?" Kirk asks quietly.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but if I was to report that rubbish every time someone on this blasted ship broke a regulation trying to save a crewman's life we'd all have been grounded before we passed Alpha Centauri our first year out, m'self included. Psh."

A smile quirks briefly at the captain's lips, but he looks pointedly across the intervening inches. "This is not the same, and we're both aware of that, Scotty."

"Aye, sir, that we are." He leans back, and shrugs. "And if anyone on board has a problem with that, then they can bloody well transfer _off_ this ship, because it's just _that_ which makes this command team the success it is, and this ship the beacon of hope she is, thank y'very much."

Kirk shakes his head ruefully. "Your loyalty is commendable, Scotty. But if I am emotionally compromised to the point of endangering this ship and our mission, then –"

"Sir. I have seen this ship in all kinds of compromising positions, and in all kinds of dangerous ones. I have _also_ seen you make decisions between saving this ship, and saving members of her crew; and in each case, when the choice was necessary, you have made the correct decision to save the ship. Those circumstances did not apply here."

Kirk frowns.

"This mission held no danger to the _Enterprise_ , sir; if it had, I would never have agreed to beam down with Doctor McCoy. I dare many things, Captain, but I take no chances where the life-blood of this ship is concerned. If I'd thought y'were putting the ship in danger by going to Sigma Draconis in the first place, I would have said so. I have, in fact, more than once, as we both know."

"Yes, you have. But not under circumstances like this."

"If you mean calling you out on your personal life affecting your, shall we say, deviation from our official mission, Captain? That's none of my affair, an' you're the one who has to answer to Starfleet Command for it, not I. That's the only aspect of this mission which differed from any other, and there was no danger to the ship in that."

The captain shifts uneasily, still looking unconvinced, and Scott sighs. "And, begging your pardon, sir, but the rest of us care about the Commander too, y'know."

"I wasn't implying otherwise."

"You are not the only man who disregarded regulation knowingly, sir. We all wanted the same thing, Jim."

"I suppose you're right, but…just the same." A measured exhale, and he can fairly see the tension starting to dissipate as Kirk straightens in his chair, looking slightly more himself. "I need to know that if such a situation ever occurs, you will call me out on it. I mean it, Scotty."

"Yes, yes, I have no problem causing a squabble when needed. But do not take the entire responsibility of this ship upon yourself. You are only one man, Captain."

Kirk's eyes glint with humor. "And this is your official and entirely unbiased opinion, I take it?"

"Ehh. 'Tis your Vulcan's job to be unbiased. I am but a poor substitute, Captain." He grins as the man laughs, springing to his feet with more energy than he has shown all evening. "No doubt I'll be hearing about the lack of factual content or some such rubbish in my official report, but that's as may be, sir."

"Well, I for one am grateful for your expertise today. And for your candor, Mr. Scott."

"Aye, sir. It's one for the books, that's for sure and certain."

"You're telling me." Kirk shakes his head, stifling a yawn. "We will be fortunate if Command even believes what I end up sending them. And if they do, somehow I doubt they will be of the same opinion as you in regards to the regulations."

"Well, sir, I stand by what I said. And no bureaucrat in a padded desk chair could ever understand the best way to run a starship, especially _this_ ship. We've nothing to be ashamed of."

"You seem far more certain of that than I, Mr. Scott." For just a moment, the man looks young, so very young – Scott often forgets how young Kirk really is; most starship captains are a decade his senior – and very unsure.

It's almost endearing, until he remembers that the man single-handedly took down his entire Engineering staff in last week's poker tournament and rooted out the ensign who was cheating while doing so, ruthlessly transferring him on the spot to Science Lab Three where he'd have direct Vulcan supervision for the next four weeks.

That, was a punishment indeed.

"Aye, well, I have slept and eaten in the last forty-eight hours, and something tells me you have not."

"You've been taking lessons from Spock in nagging, Mr. Scott."

"Well, sir, it is apparently in the job description for Acting First Officer."

" _Touché_."

"Might that be the reason you suffered the wrath of our good Doctor McCoy?"

"That, among other things. He was in rare form. And had none of your tact, Scotty."

"Well, we cannot all be perfect, sir."


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, warning for discussion of power of attorney issues, discussion of life and choice, etc.

Given past experiences after similarly trying missions, Spock is fully prepared for any and all emotional reactions as he enters the office of the _Enterprise_ 's Chief Medical Officer and Ship's Counselor: one Leonard H. McCoy, possessor of three doctorates and the most trying combination of human character traits ever to grace a starship and its few non-human passengers.

Spock of Vulcan has, over the past three years, proceeded from loathing this particular human to brokering a very strange sort of almost-kinship with the man, exceedingly different from his relationship with James Kirk and yet just as surprisingly crucial to his state of being. Doctor McCoy is now as much a part of his life aboard the _Enterprise_ as are his Science laboratories, and not simply because they are the two department heads who work closest together on exploratory missions. (The logistics of when and how this particular human managed to slip past his carefully-erected barriers and somehow insert himself neatly into Spock's well-ordered _private_ life is an entirely different, and rather alarming, matter.)

These musings aside, McCoy is not the most peaceful of humans even at his calmest, and on a day such as this, can be a veritable tempest in a teapot, as he heard his mother quote a piece of old Earth literature once. Given the shattered cryo-storage unit on the floor and the stormy expression which greet him upon his entrance to the office, the metaphor is most apposite.

It is also most unfortunate for Spock's own current state of mind, that being an experience which he believes humans term a "headache," likely due to improper procedural techniques during his surgery this afternoon. A few hours in a healing trance is obviously in order, but that must be postponed until after matters are cared for aboard the ship, this one included. For all his being the one species aboard who is not troubled with outbursts of emotional distress, it for some reason seems to fall to him to dispel those metaphorical storm clouds with ironic regularity, a situation which will bear further examination during a meditation session at an undetermined later date.

However, due to this state of affairs not being atypical and the events of this mission being slightly beyond what is considered typical stress levels for a human, he is well-bolstered against the possibility of an outburst of epic proportions, when he enters the inner sanctum of their Chief Medical Officer.

And yet, he is met with nothing more than an exceedingly uncomfortable silence.

This, he has no idea how to deal with. His and the Captain's most intense of arguments are like fire and water, canceling each other out within moments; whereas his and Doctor McCoy's interactions tend to be nothing less than explosive, more like fire and _shuttle fuel_ – so this unusual lack of reaction, is both disconcerting and alarming.

"Doctor?"

His inquiry is met with a sour look over the computer monitor, but it is at least a reaction.

"Someday I'm gonna learn to lock that door. What does Nurse Roberts not understand about a full neural workup, Mr. Spock?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Given that said neural workup was interrupted by your unprofessional re-entry into Sickbay, I daresay the procedure was best left unfinished."

A half-filled glass of amber liquid is tossed back without reply or ceremony, despite the fact that the man is clearly still on duty. Spock wisely refrains from comment; after all, the cause is likely sufficient.

McCoy sighs, and shoves the empty glass to one side with a clink. "Fine, just don't blame me if something comes loose up in that brain of yours later." Blue eyes squint suspiciously as Spock takes the consulting seat beside the desk rather than across from it. "What are you doing."

"At present, attempting to ascertain the facts of the previous twenty-four hours, Doctor."

"Go ask Jim. I'm busy."

"That appears to be debatable, and in any case I would prefer an unbiased medical report."

"And I'd prefer you _leave_ , Mr. Spock," is the icy response, delivered with very real venom – a rare thing to hear, after so many years. Spock spares a moment for consideration of the irony that he can now, after these years, tell the difference. "Or is your brain still so scrambled you can't tell when someone wants to be alone?"

"I believe that would be a question better answered by the man responsible for its reassembly, Doctor." McCoy's face turns a peculiarly ashen shade at the words. Interesting. "And as the test subject in question as well as the Chief Science Officer, the receipt of your report does fall to me. However, should you prefer this to be made to the captain instead, I shall defer my debriefing until such time as it may become necessary for my own reports' completion."

A muffled sound of exasperation from under the hand that scrubs down tired features. "Pretty sure Jim's had enough of this whole thing to last him a good long while, Spock," is the reply, slow to come and accompanied by a sigh. "Debrief away, for all the good it'll do either of us."

His blinks, taken aback slightly at the defensiveness. "As a medical man, Doctor, surely you see the value in eliminating the unknown and the uncertain, both physical and mental, in such an unusual situation as this mission."

"That's what I have a nursing staff for, Commander. One you bypassed in order to poke your Vulcan nose into things which don't concern you."

His eyebrow inclines slightly at the sheer illogic of that particular statement, all things considered, and after a moment McCoy snorts in fleeting, mutual amusement before relapsing into silence with a dismissive wave.

"The irrationality of that statement aside, Doctor, given that the other two ranking officers of this vessel are currently otherwise engaged, the matter does indeed, as you say, concern me. In addition to the technical details of the events, the mental health of the ship's Chief Medical Officer is of more importance even than that of the Captain, since upon that rests the fate of the remaining crew complement."

McCoy regards him for a moment with that particular shrewdness that so enables him to remain on an equal footing with superior Vulcan intelligence on a daily basis. "Uh- _huh_." The man pulls the discarded glass back toward him with a shake of the head and begins to pour another drink, thankfully in a moderate amount, then raises the glass in what Spock has come to recognize as a human gesture of camaraderie; the animosity has mellowed into a more amicable exasperation. "Now I _know_ I left a few loose ends up in there. Full brain scan, Spock. Now."

"Your attempts at circumventing my inquiries are even less effective than usual, Doctor. And while some mild discomfort due to slight neural degeneration is only to be expected, a brief healing trance will be sufficient to restore any residual damage caused by your human clumsiness after being deprived of the planet's store of knowledge."

Not, apparently, the best thing to say, because the doctor goes pale as his office walls, and the glass rattles loudly in the silence as it is released onto the table.

"Well, at least we know that Vulcan lack of sensitivity is still alive and well."

"I was not aware that the matter required sensitive handling, Doctor." A pointed look, and the man's eyes skip almost nervously away from him, across the desk and barely-organized chaos it contains. "Perhaps you should enlighten me."

"Nothing to enlighten you about, Commander. It's been a long day, for all of us." The words are calm, almost pleasant, and delivered with a half-smile that is more disturbing than anything else in its patent falsity. "Now, I'm a busy man, so either get on with your debriefing or get back out there and complete your neural workup, but you better make up your mind and pick one or the other."

This is an exercise in foolishness, and Spock too is a busy man. He has not the time, nor today the brain-energy, to waste in such fruitless pursuits.

"As you wish, Doctor." He stands, somewhat stiffly, and makes his way toward the office doors. Behind him, the sharp snap-click of keys betrays the unnatural vehemence with which the doctor is typing his report.

Just before tripping the door's motion sensors, he pauses, and half-turns on one heel.

" _What_." McCoy doesn't even look up, stabbing at another data-padd with a stylus and squinting at his monitor while pulling up a report with his free hand.

"If I am to attempt this same conversational exercise in futility with the captain, it would be of some assistance to know why, precisely, you are so angry with him."

The stylus fumbles to the desk for a moment before being brought back up to point at him. "And who says I'm not mad at you, Spock? Hmm?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Really, Doctor. Subtlety is not one of your strongest characteristics. Were I the target of your emotion, it would not require Vulcan intelligence to perceive that fact."

A half-amused snort drifts over the monitor towards him.

"What I am unable to ascertain, however, is what precisely could have happened in the intervening hours since my disappearance to have created such a rift between you."

"It's got nothing to do with you, Spock."

"I daresay that is likely not the case, recent events considered," he replies dryly.

A laugh, genuine this time, and the doctor leans back, shaking his head in a fit of dark humor. "Well, that's true, I suppose. It's got everything to do with you, but not how you're thinking."

"Again, Doctor, I ask that you enlighten me."

McCoy regards him for a moment in silence, and then points at the vacant chair with the stylus. Barely has Spock regained the seat when the doctor taps the instrument absently on the desk, an almost nervous drumming. "You know he's in serious hot water with the powers that be over this little detour of ours, right?" he asks, inapropos of nothing.

Spock inclines his head a fraction. "I gathered as much, Doctor."

"He insisted we come after you, regulations be hanged. And nothing anyone said or did was going to change his mind."

"That was, while an unwise command decision, an unsurprising outcome of an emotional human's choices, Doctor. I fail to see why this should be cause for dissention between you, given you are a member of the same species and prone to the same type of reaction upon occasion."

"No, you wouldn't see it, would you." The stylus drops to the table with a clink, as its owner slowly presses his fingers against his eyelids in a gesture of painful uncertainty. "God knows I'm glad we did, Spock, don't get me wrong. I'd just as soon never have to see you on one of my operating tables again for the rest of my life. But…"

"But what, Doctor?"

"But…you know what, forget it. It's been a long day, Mr. Spock. I'm sure I'm just an over-reacting fool."

Spock's hand stills the retreat from the desk, and the Doctor freezes under his grip, wide-eyed with surprise. "I have seen you, as you put it, over-react, Doctor," he says pointedly. "I do not see that now, nor would I characterize your concerns as foolish if they are producing a broken link in the chain of command for this ship."

"You _would_ put it like that wouldn't you. It's no wonder Jim avoids you when he's sulking," McCoy mutters testily, pulling away. He does not, however, leave the desk, but settles back with a sigh, looking very much like the captain does when he is battling an oncoming migraine. It is likely a state of mind they are all sharing at the moment.

"Doctor, from your statements, I can only surmise that you were not in favor of journeying to the Sigma Draconis system in search of my misappropriated brain." That the previous statement can be said without a blink of incredulity, is testament itself to the ridiculous nature of their last few missions, and it is a point worth noting.

McCoy shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand between them. "That's not – well, it sort of is, I guess…" He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Spock, I just…this thing. Well, I can't rest easy about it."

"Specify."

"You mean besides the fact that I performed brain surgery on you with you directin' me _out loud_ for the last thirty minutes?"

"Precisely." He meets the physician's dark humor with the ghost of amusement lurking in his own eyes.

McCoy grows serious a moment later, however. "Look, Mr. Spock. In the medical world, we believe life ceases to exist when there is no brain function. I violated a half a dozen medical codes keeping your body alive down here with no real medical reason to think you had any hope of being restored to full functionality."

That is a fair point, and he had not considered it until now, nor its medico-ethical ramifications.

"When I think about the ten million things that could have gone wrong…none of us had the right to make those decisions for you. But Jim wouldn't even consider listening to me, and I didn't fight him on it. I mean…I don't even know what I mean, Spock. It just doesn't sit well with me, that's all. I should be on the side of the _patient_ , not the family – dear Lord, we didn't even talk about callin' your family, that's just –" The doctor waves a hand, helplessly.

Spock remains silent, sensing the need to complete the thought.

"I don't even know, Spock. But in this case, I'm darn glad I didn't pull the plug, so to speak. But Jim doesn't agree with me on the medical aspect, and he's pretty angry that I called him on it."

Surak save him from these ridiculously emotional humans and their endearing but equally ridiculous ways of showing that emotion in the most harmful of fashions.

"Allow me to first, alleviate your concerns regarding the ethics of your actions, Doctor," he begins directly, and sees curiosity spark in the human's eyes. "And perhaps this knowledge will also mitigate some of your anger toward Captain Kirk as well."

"I'm listenin'."

"Your medical expertise and therefore medical ethics are, while the foremost in their field, based primarily on a humanoid-biased medical system. While you may regard life function as having ceased with brainwave-activity, there are species across the galaxy where this is not the case."

McCoy blinks at him for a moment, processing this. "I suppose that could be true, but – are you saying Vulcans are one of those species?"

"I am. The Vulcan culture is a complicated one in regards to the afterlife and its concepts. To a Vulcan, the mind is the whole. We are the _katra_ – the collective, mind and spirit and all that one is. Your closest Terran translation of the word might be the _soul_. The physical body is merely a corporeal vessel to house one's personal contribution to the collective _katra_ and all it contains, past and present and future."

The doctor sits up straight in fascination. "That's a different approach than I'd think out of a logical people. But surely you do still believe when brain activity ceases, life ceases as well?"

"We do. However, the captain was aware that this situation might be slightly different than the usual one which you are likely referencing in your medical cases; in this case, the brain had not technically ceased – therefore, the soul, or all that truly was _Spock_ , had not yet ceased to exist; rather, it had only changed vessels. No human brain would be capable of such a feat; in a human's case, the brain removed would indeed mean a human would cease to exist."

"All respect to your culture, Spock, I still disagree with you; he had no way of knowing your brain hadn't just been taken out and stuck in cryostorage for research or something." McCoy shakes his head. "No way of knowing you were still alive, even according to your Vulcan voodoo rules."

"I cannot fully explain the Vulcan Way to you, Doctor." He hesitates, but as this is clearly going to remain a point of contention, perhaps the cause is sufficient to permit an outworlder some slight knowledge others might never know. "Would it surprise you to learn that Vulcan telepathic abilities originate and are centered in the katra?"

"Interesting." As Spock is not typically forthcoming with cultural information – like all his Vulcan kinsmen – McCoy always jumps at the chance to learn anything which could be useful, medically or otherwise (up to and including what is known as _blackmail_ in human circles). "But what's that got to do with any of this?"

"Simply that there is a sort of resonance within the Vulcan katra, Doctor, that can form over time between certain beings. It is an exceedingly rare occurrence between species, but it has been known to occur."

"And?"

"And if something were to happen to the Captain, if he were to be killed, I have no doubt that I would at least sense that; not in a telepathic manner, as when the _Intrepid_ was destroyed, but I would know, Doctor. I cannot explain that to you, but I would _know_." McCoy's eyes are narrowed at him, as if trying to judge his sincerity, but he is quite truthful; it is that fact which has been the cause of his illogical actions more than once when Starfleet has believed Kirk to be dead, as in their mirror universe encounter. "While it is rarer in psi-null species, it is not impossible for that…sense, if you will, to develop in another being. Before completely discounting the captain's actions, I would simply ask you to consider the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, he may very well have been responding to the fact that he was aware I had not yet died, in clinical terms."

McCoy appears to be contemplating this with the open-minded curiosity that is the human's saving grace against an otherwise frustratingly stubborn personality which grates against Spock's logical Vulcan methods at times. "That sounds like the biggest load of hokey this side of Alpha Centauri, but I've seen stranger things today. It still bothers me, though."

"You are referring to the medical procedure of keeping one's body alive by machinery only?"

"The lack of patient consent in doing that, more than anything. Your medical file is ridiculously incomplete, Spock, we've had this argument before. And don't get me wrong, I don't think Jim would ever do anything I'd have to fight him on, where you're concerned – and anyway, that's your business and none of mine. But I just don't like it, is all. I need you to at least create some specific written medical directives, not a blanket sign-off!"

This, surprises him, as it does make a sort of logical sense, though obviously only from the doctor's mistaken point of view.

"You believe my legal specification of Captain Kirk as decision-making contact in medical emergencies to be unwise, then, Doctor?"

"No, I didn't say that." A sigh. "Okay, I did say that, but that's not what I meant! I just – I don't know, Spock. This whole thing has turned us all upside down."

"Doctor, as either the _Enterprise_ or my parents are more often than not outside the reaches of Federation communication channels, someone aboard must be placed in that position. There are few logical choices for that candidacy, you will agree."

"Yes, yes, I agree. I just…I should've disagreed with him about this, medically and ethically. That's the problem, really." The doctor leans back in his chair, eyes weary. "I should have disagreed with him. And I didn't."

"Doctor, you obviously see this as a flaw, when in fact you precisely prove the reason why I made that choice."

The man's eyes narrow. "What."

He permits a slight quirk of the lips to show his words are meant in sincere amicability, not in any way mockery. "Doctor McCoy, as Chief Medical Officer of this ship, you are the one individual who holds the final authority to override any orders, personal or professional, given by the captain or any other crew member, provided you are able to prove they are given under emotional compromise or other medical instability."

The doctor blinks.

"Admittedly against much evidence to the contrary, I find that I do to some extent trust your judgment, enough to place that decision-making capability in your hands."

"Huh."

"Therefore, in this instance, the fact that you did not, as you say, disagree with the captain's decision may cause you unease by your Starfleet code. However, you were abiding by my personal wishes as outlined in my own medical file; namely, using your best judgment in the situation."

"So you trust me to re-wire your brain from scratch _and_ keep Jim Kirk under control when he's on a rescue mission? Are you _insane_?"

"If so, I believe the culpability for that now rests solely upon you, Doctor."

"Oh, I am not takin' the blame for –" McCoy trails off with a pause, squints at his computer screen, and rolls his eyes. Leaning over, he punches the inter-comms button for the outer ward. "Jim, stop terrorizing my staff and get in here, the door's unlocked. Uh-uh, you _stay_ ," he adds, pointing with a bony finger, and Spock's eyebrow slides up a fraction as the door opens.

"I was not terrorizing anyone, Doctor, I was simply asking where my Chief Medical Officer was since he was _supposed_ to be examining a brain surgery patient, and furthermore – oh." Kirk clears his throat, and steps inside so the door can shut as it chimes impatiently at him. "I'll come back, Bones."

McCoy jabs a second button with one finger, and the orange lockdown light over the door begins flashing.

"Try it. Now, where were we?"


	4. Chapter Four

The humans have an expression, _if looks could kill_ , and none in his experience have ever quite embodied that particular aphorism quite like the captain of the _Enterprise_. He has seen Jim Kirk make an entire room full of bickering diplomats quail before him, turn belligerent young ensigns into loyal officers, sway an army into surrender with nothing more than the power of bluff and a righteous fury mingled with just enough charm to make him incredibly dangerous. Were the phrase a literalism, both he and the Doctor would likely be in need of medical attention themselves at the moment due to McCoy's uniquely confrontational therapy methods.

Jim has never reacted well to being cornered, one reason why though it is to McCoy the captain comes when he needs psychological assistance, oddly enough it is usually to Spock he turns for emotional security. It is an illogical paradox which has puzzled him from the moment he realized with dismay that this human had all but crash-landed through every barrier he had ever put up against such emotional beings - but a paradox which for reasons inexplicable is of benefit to them both. To deny that which exists is not logical, and therefore he does not make the attempt.

He does, however, refrain from giving vent to a very human sigh at this present juncture, and only sits back to, as they say, _wait it out_.

"Doctor McCoy, you are out of line!"

"So put me on report, _Captain_." The drawl is as dry as Vulcan sand at mid-day. McCoy has not bothered to even look up from where he still types busily at his report. "Or you gonna just stand around and make a scene about that too?"

"Doctor, your antagonism is hardly diffusing the situation."

"You stay out of this."

"You ordered me to remain in this office," Spock points out reasonably. "As I have no interest in becoming collateral damage in whatever conflict you are unable to resolve between you, I should prefer to be released to my quarters if neither of you are willing to act in a manner befitting your stations as Starfleet officers and adults of your species."

The captain's eyes grow comically wide, and a startled laugh breaks from between his lips. "Consider me duly chastened, Mr. Spock," he says finally, and Spock can see the anger has faded into something more like simple frustration, the lines of stress around his eyes having dissolved somewhat. Now, he merely looks inestimably weary. "Bones, are your brain surgery techniques responsible for that increased _directness,_ or have we really been that bad?"

McCoy looks sourly over the computer monitor. "Both, probably. Now sit down."

After a momentary hesitation, Kirk pulls the second chair over and slumps into it with a stiffness that indicates exhaustion rather than tension, soon casting a side-glance in Spock's direction. He raises an eyebrow, and sees the human deflate even more, either in relief or resignation.

"So how much trouble are you in, first of all." McCoy clicks off the computer program, sets the stylus down and folds his arms, leaning back in his chair.

"Command's been advised of the detour, but Scotty thinks he can get us back on course without any significant loss of time once the Contact team beams back up, so that depends on how much of the written reports they believe." A quiet sigh. "Not sure I would believe them myself, but that is on my head, no one else's."

"A successful First Contact will do much to alleviate any official repercussions, Captain."

"It'd better," Kirk mutters ruefully. "Do us all a favor, Mr. Spock, and keep your internal organs safely where they belong from now on?"

"That is most definitely my intention."

"Good, good. All right, Bones, let me have it, whatever it is." A half-amused, half-resigned look across the desk. "But I will say, Mr. Scott has already done quite a masterful job of picking up where you left off on the Observation Deck, so go easy on me?"

"I got nothing to say to you except I'm sorry, Jim."

Kirk blinks, obviously not expecting that opening salvo.

"Look, this was a nightmare from start to finish, for all of us." McCoy sighs, flicks Spock a brief glance. "We both have things we probably should've done differently, when it all comes down to it, but there's not a human alive who can tell how they're going to react under those circumstances until they're knee deep in them, so." He shrugs. "I know better than to push you when you're derailing, Jim. Doesn't mean I always have the good sense to stop."

The captain leans forward with a nearly silent sigh, elbows on knees and hands scrubbing down his face. "Derailing is a very good word for it. Next time, don't be afraid to stop me before I completely spin out of orbit."

"Sometimes I'm a better psychologist than friend, Jim."

"That's not true, but apology accepted. If you'll take mine in return."

"Fair enough. So, you want to get in on this apologizing action, for scarin' the devil out of all of us?"

Spock raises an eyebrow, and is secretly pleased to hear the captain laugh, for the first time in many hours.

"It's not like he could help any of it, Bones."

"Yes, well." McCoy looks mulishly over the desk at him. "'F it's all the same to you, I'd prefer you not end up in my Sickbay for the rest of our five-year mission, Mr. Spock."

"I assure you, that would be my preference as well, Doctor. I am disinclined toward the human vice of gambling, and I believe you would say the odds are very much against a successful second such operation at your dubiously qualified hand."

An indignant sputter. "Dubiously qualified!"

"Here we go," Kirk mutters, though there's no real exasperation in the tone. McCoy swats his hand sharply with a padd as he reaches for the half-empty decanter, however, without skipping a beat.

"Not on an empty stomach, you don't."

"If I have to sit here prisoner and listen to you two, I _do_ ," Kirk retorts, though with amusement. "Or are you going to unlock that door, Doctor?"

"Fine, fine. But you're both off-duty until the day after tomorrow, and if I see your computers show you logged in during the next twelve hours other than to sign off on the Contact team’s reports? I am _not_ in the mood to be crossed tonight. Don't push me."

Kirk turns an innocent look in his direction. "Mr. Spock, I am a firm believer in not poking the bear, as we say on Earth. And yourself?"

"Your strategy, as always, is quite sound, sir."

"Just get out." McCoy snorts, and punches the lockdown button with a shake of the head, though it is obvious the human is fighting the urge to smile. "And don't forget you still owe me a brain-scan, Commander. You want to eat dinner or something first, that's fine, but if you're not back in here before ship's midnight I send Nurse Chapel after you. And y'know she's probably still a little emotional, so. Best interest to come back and take your medicine like a good little Vulcan."

He does not deign to dignify that with an answer, especially as the captain appears to be trying most gallantly not to laugh at his expression. After such a day as the last has been, he would much prefer Kirk find amusement in the situation, even if it is at Spock's own expense. It is a small enough price to pay, to put the man's mind at ease, and will likely amply repay itself in a lack of sleepless nights or unpleasant dreams later this evening.

"Well, Mr. Spock, I believe a strategic retreat is in order." Kirk makes an overly grand gesture toward the door as it opens.

"Indeed, Captain."

"Shall I tell your staff it's safe to come out of hiding now, Bones?" is the parting volley he hears as he exits just before the captain, followed by an undignified yelp and the sound of something clattering against the door as it slides shut only just in time, nearly clipping the captain's hastily-scuttling boot-heels.

He raises an eyebrow.

"That went well," Kirk says brightly, beaming at the ward in general.

Across the room, the trio of interns currently on duty regard their commanding officers over the top of a computer bank with something resembling awe.

The intra-comm scratches briefly. _"Get outta my Sickbay unless you want to become a permanent resident!"_

"Well, you heard the man, Mr. Spock."

"I believe he could be heard in the delta quadrant, Captain. My definitively superior hearing, has no such difficulty whatsoever."


End file.
